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eveal. But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a tiffany discount jewellery yesterday has faded from its page The Bab Ballads 70 Ballad: Ellen McJones Aberdeen MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN Was the son of an elderly labouring man; You’ve guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight, And p’r’aps altogether, shrewd reader, you’re right. From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside, Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde, There wasn’t a child or a woman or man Who could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN. No other could wake such detestable groans, With reed and with chaunter – with bag and with drones: All day and ill night he delighted the chiels With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels. He’d clamber a mountain and squat on the ground, And the neighbouring maidens would gather around To list to the pipes and to gaze in his een, Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN. All loved their McCLAN, save a Sassenach brute, Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot; He dressed himself up in a Highlander way, Tho’ his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY. TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense To make him a costume jewellery Scotchman in every sense; But this is a matter, you’ll readily own, That isn’t a question of tailors alone. A Sassenach chief may be bonily built, He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt; Stick a skean in his hose – wear an acre of stripes – But he cannot assume an affection for pipes. CLONGLOCKETY’S pipings all night and all day Quite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY; The girls were amused at his man jewelry singular spleen, Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN, “MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad, With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad. If you really must play on that cursed affair, My goodness! play something resembling an air.” Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON claddagh ring McCLAN – The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man; For all were enraged at the insult, I ween – Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN. “Let’s show,” said McCLAN, “to this Sassenach loon That the The Bab Ballads 71 bagpipes CAN play him a regular tune. Let’s see,” said McCLAN, as he thoughtfully sat, “‘IN MY COTTAGE’ is easy – I’ll practise at that.” He blew at his “Cottage,” and blew with a will, For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until (You’ll hardly believe it) McCLAN, tiffany and co bracelet I declare, Elicited something resembling an air. It was wild – it was fitful – as wild as the breeze – It wandered about into cheap tiffany jewelry several keys; It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I’m aware; But still it distinctly suggested an air. The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced; He shrieked in his agony – bellowed and pranced; And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene – Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN. “Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around; And fill a’ ye lugs wi’ the exquisite sound. An air fra’ the bagpipes – beat that if ye can! Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN!” The fame of his piping spread over the land: Respectable widows proposed for his hand, And maidens came flocking to sit on the green – Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN. One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore He’d stand it no longer – he drew his claymore, And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste) Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist. Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS McCLAN, Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man; The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene – Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN. It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY To find them “take on” in this serious way; He pitied the poor little fluttering birds, And solaced their souls with the following words: “Oh, maidens,” said PATTISON, touching his hat, “Don’t blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that; Observe, I’m a very superior man, A much better fellow than ANGUS McCLAN.” They smiled when he winked and addressed them as “dears,” And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears, A pleasanter gentleman never was seen – Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN. The Bab Ballads 72 Ballad: Peter The Wag Policeman PETER forth I drag From his obscure retreat: He was a merry genial wag, Who loved a mad conceit. If he were asked the time of day, By country bumpkins green, He not unfrequently would say, “A quarter past thirteen.” If ever you by word of mouth Inquired of MISTER FORTH The way to somewhere in the South, He always sent you North. With little boys his beat along He loved to stop and play; He loved to send old ladies wrong, And teach their feet to stray. He would in frolic moments, when Such mischief bent upon, Take Bishops up as betting men – Bid Ministers move on. Then all the worthy boys he knew He regularly licked, And always collared people who Had had their pockets picked. He was not naturally bad, Or viciously inclined, But from his early youth he had A waggish turn of mind. The Men of London grimly scowled With indignation wild; The Men of London gruffly growled, But PETER calmly claddagh ring smiled. Against this minion of the Crown The swelling murmurs grew – From affordable jewelry Camberwell to Kentish Town – From Rotherhithe to Kew. Still humoured he his wagsome turn, And fed in various ways The coward rage that dared to burn, But did not dare to blaze. Still, Retribution has her day, Although her flight is slow: ONE DAY THAT CRUSHER LOST HIS WAY NEAR POLAND STREET, SOHO. The haughty boy, too proud to ask, To find his way resolved, And in the tangle of his task Got more and more involved. The Men of London, overjoyed, Came there to jeer their foe, And flocking crowds completely cloyed The mazes of Soho. The news on telegraphic wires Sped swiftly o’er the lea, Excursion trains from distant shires Brought myriads to see. For weeks he trod his self-made beats Through Newport- Gerrard- Bear- Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets, And into Golden Square. But all, alas! in vain, for when He tried to learn the way Of little The Bab Ballads 73 boys or grown-up men, They none of them would say. Their eyes would flash – their teeth would grind – Their lips would tightly curl – They’d say, “Thy way thyself must find, Thou misdirecting churl!” And, similarly, also, when He tried a foreign friend; Italians answered, tiffany jewelry uk “IL BALEN” – The French, “No comprehend.” The Russ would say with gleaming eye ” Sevastopol!” and groan. The Greek said, [GREEK TEXT WHICH CANNOT BE REPRODUCED].” To wander thus for many a year That Crusher never ceased – The Men of London dropped a tear, Their anger was appeased At length exploring gangs were sent To find poor FORTH’S remains – A handsome grant by Parliament Was voted for their pains. To seek the poor policeman out Bold spirits volunteered, And when they swore they’d solve the doubt, The Men of London cheered. And in antique tiffany jewelry a yard, dark, dank, and drear, They found him, on the tiffany co uk floor – It leads from Richmond Buildings – near The Royalty stage-door. With brandy cold and brandy hot They plied him, starved and wet, And made him sergeant on the spot – The Men of London’s pet! The Bab Ballads 74 Ballad: Ben Allah Achmet; – Or, The Fatal Tum I once tiffany and co bracelet did know a Turkish man Whom I upon a two-pair-back met, His name it was EFFENDI KHAN BACKSHEESH PASHA BEN ALLAH ACHMET. A DOCTOR BROWN I also knew – I’ve often eaten of his bounty; The Turk and he they lived at Hooe, In Sussex, that delightful county! I knew a nice young lady there, Her name was EMILY MACPHERSON, And though she wore another’s hair, She was discounted tiffany jewelry an interesting person. The Turk adored the maid of Hooe (Although his harem would have shocked her). But BROWN adored that maiden too: He was a most seductive doctor. They’d follow her where’er she’d go – A course of action most improper; She neither knew by sight, and so For neither of them cared a copper. BROWN did not know that Turkish male, He might have been his sainted mother: The people in this simple tale Are total strangers to each other. One day that Turk he sickened sore, And suffered agonies oppressive; He threw himself upon the floor And rolled about in pain excessive. It made him moan, it made him groan, And almost wore him to a mummy. Why should I hesitate to own That pain was in his little tummy? At length a doctor came, and rung (As ALLAH ACHMET had desired), Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue, And hemmed and hawed, and then inquired: “Where is the pain that long has preyed Upon you in so sad a way, sir?” The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said: I don’t exactly like to say, sir.” “Come, nonsense!” said good DOCTOR BROWN. “So this is Turkish coyness, is it? You must contrive to fight it down – Come, come, sir, please to be explicit.” The Bab Ballads 75 The Turk he shyly bit his thumb, And coyly blushed like one halfwitted, “The pain is in my little tum,” He,

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